


Humors of Whiskey

by kaclydid



Series: Humors of Whiskey [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23645464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaclydid/pseuds/kaclydid
Summary: Arthur and Reader grew up together in the gang. Arthur is finding he's fallen in love with you as he watches you rise in rank in the infamous Van der Linde Gang.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Series: Humors of Whiskey [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724053
Comments: 3
Kudos: 81





	1. beautiful

You whooped loudly as your horse, Eugene, galloped away from Valentine. Karen’s sharp, joyous laugh echoed yours, and as you glanced over your shoulder, you smiled brightly as Arthur, John, Hosea, and Lenny galloped after you, their saddles hung with cloth bags full of cash and gold. 

“Split up!” Arthur called, waving you and Karen on with John. “Meet back at camp!”

You smiled, watching as the small town disappeared behind the three of you. As you neared Horseshoe Overlook, you all slowed, still laughing brightly as you hopped off your horses.

Dutch sidled up to the three of you, puffing on his cigar as he looked you over. “Well?”

John smiled, unslinging the saddlebag from his horse and tossing it to Dutch. “The girls were right,” he said with a shake of his head. 

You still couldn’t believe you and Karen had pulled that off. Men were too trustworthy of pretty women, with prettier smiles. You and Karen had barely entered the manager’s office before Hosea had led Arthur into the bank, and moments later, guns had been drawn. You and Karen ducked out of the back, ducking as gunshots rang out, bolting for the horses. 

“I don’t know how much we ended up getting away with,” you started, turning to Dutch and smoothing the flyaway hairs back under your fancy, lace trimmed hat. “But they fell hard for us!” you smiled, letting Karen wrap her arms around you. 

“Good job,” Dutch nodded, looking up as hoofbeats sounded in the woods. Hosea rode up with Lenny and Arthur, smile large on his face. 

“Everyone’s alright, then?” he asked as he dismounted. 

Dutch smiled, watching as Arthur and Lenny slung the remaining saddlebags over their shoulders, filled to the brim with cash. Dutch reached into the one he was holding, removed a bundle of bills, thumbed through them, and then started to laugh. “Take this good calls for some celebration! Mister Pearson, bring out the whiskey!” he hollered, striding towards his tent.

You smiled, waving off Karen as you walked to your own tent, a small little lean-to with nothing more than a bedroll and a chest for your clothes. You had lived most of your life with the Dutch van der Linde gang. He and Hosea had taken you in as a youngster, after you had been found by a wrecked wagon on some dirt road miles from any civilization.

You had been eight. You remembered nothing about what had happened to your family, or where you had come from. But you knew your name, and that was all Dutch needed. Miss Grimshaw oversaw your rearing, mostly. You learned to ride a horse, shoot, and fish as the years went on, but Miss Grimshaw oversaw that you were taught your letters, arithmetic, and how to be a proper camp lady. 

To this day, when not off with the enforcers or scouts, you were scrubbing dirt from the laundry beside Mary Beth, Abigail, Tilly, and Karen. 

You didn’t mind. You had a family. You viewed Hosea and Dutch as father figures, much like Arthur and John did. Out of all the camp ladies, you had been closest to Miss Grimshaw, however, as you had been with her the longest. But you would never call her a mother, although she was the closest thing to one. 

You quickly changed out of the skirt, petticoat, and tailored jacket you had worn for the robbery, tossing all the garments into your trunk as you replaced them with trousers, a button down shirt, and boots. 

It was just after dusk when you finally got up from resting on your bedroll to stride to the fire, where Javier was starting to strum on his guitar. Beer and whiskey had been passed around, and as you neared, Arthur held out a glass for you. 

“Good job today,” he nodded. 

You smiled, saluting him with your glass as you took the drink. “If it is so easy for men to fall weak at the knees with a well timed smile, we shouldn’t have trouble robbin’ every bank we come across,” you smiled. 

“Well, ya got that right,” Arthur smiled. “Told ya Dutch wouldn’t mind you helpin’ out.”

“Yeah, well, he still thinks of me as a little girl,” you huffed, taking another drink as you stepped up to the table. 

“Bet Miss Grimshaw was happy to have you out of her hair,” Arthur smirked, nudging your side with his elbow.

“And what does that mean?” you asked, just as spritely, turning to him, jutting your hip out. “I do my chores, I darn your nasty, sweat stained socks,” you smiled, and then straightened, holding your chin up high, “Miss Grimshaw ain’t never had nothing bad to say about my work.”

“‘cept your arithmetic,” Arthur pointed out. “That did take ya a bit.”

“Oh, shut up, Arthur,” you smiled. “I was eight!” 

Arthur smiled. “Ya could be Dutch’s bookkeeper now, though. Smart, deadly with a pistol, apparently pretty enough to get a bank manager to hand over the safe key with nothin’ but a smile,” he smirked, turning his head to look to you as the two of you leaned, side by side, against the table, facing the fire, and the raucous group of drunks before you. 

You smiled, dropping your head. “Ya think I’m pretty. And deadly. That’s a … combination.”

Arthur’s short chuckle was refreshing as he nodded, taking a sip of his drink. “Yeah,” he hummed. For a moment, the two of you stayed standing there, listening to Javier sing along with Karen. “Come on,” Arthur started, stepping away from the table and holding a hand out. “Let’s dance.”

“Mister Morgan, I think you’ve had too much to drink,” you smirked, setting your drink aside and stepping up to him. “You ain’t never danced before.”

“Ain’t never had a pretty girl willin’ to dance with me,” he remarked lowly. 

The camp clapped, whooped, and hollered as the two of you stepped into the circle around the campfire. The music was lively, and after a handful of songs, you were beginning to feel the effects of the drinks, and the tiredness of the day caught up to you. 

“Come on, Arthur,” you mumbled, stumbling into his embrace as Javier finished singing. “Gotta sit.”

The two of you fell onto a log away from the fire. Arthur leaned back, taking a long swig from the bottle he held, as you leaned against his shoulder, gaze straying to the stars overhead. Arthur had wondered exactly what he would say to you in a situation such as this for the past year or so. He had known you for years, but being older, and wiser, and slightly drunk, he began to realize how much he cared for you over the last few months. 

He said your name on a whisper as he felt you relax against him. You hummed in response, arms tightening around his to get as close as you could. Slowly, you blinked up at him, smiling drunkenly. “Ya really think I’m pretty?” you asked. 

Arthur nodded. “Beautiful.”

“Hmm,” you smiled, rocking back against his shoulder as you looked out over the camp. “Arthur?” you asked after a moment. 

“Hmm?” 

“Have you always thought I was pretty?” 

Arthur turned, moving you off his shoulder so he could look straight at you, smiling as your head rolled drunkenly. “I’m startin’ to see it more,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You need to sleep.” He stood and helped you to your feet, guiding you to your tent, where he watched you trip over your bedroll, sending both of you tumbling to the ground with a loud bark of a laugh.

You caught your breath, laughing as you laid flat on your back, looking up to the roof of your tent. Arthur knelt beside you, reaching to pull off your boots. “Go to sleep,” he mumbled, pressing another kiss to your forehead. 

“Wait,” you mumbled, reaching after him as he stood.

Arthur knelt back down, sighing as he looked down at you, waiting for you to continue. 

“Thank you for dancin’ with me,” you said, voice trailing off as you fell asleep, barely able to get the words out. 

Arthur smirked, draping the blanket over you before he stood, striding to his own tent with a hammering heart and heat in his cheeks not from the whiskey he had been drinking all night. 


	2. sweet kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you help bring in a bounty with arthur. the ride back to camp doesn't go exactly as you had planned.

The sun was blazing against your backs as you rode alongside Arthur. Emerald Ranch was behind you, as well as the bounty you had just captured and turned in. No one had been shot, you had a wad of cash in your pocket … All in all it was a good day.

“Hey!” you called up to Arthur as your followed him through Twin Stack Pass, heading back to the Overlook, taking a look over your shoulder as you rode.

The sun was directly overhead, playing tricks as it shone against rocks and trees alike, but you swore there was something glinting up on that rise you had just rounded. “That fella we just took in … Who was he?” you asked, kicking Eugene to catch up to Arthur.

“Some gambler who killed a man after a poker game,” Arthur answered, turning to look at you. “Why?”

You twisted in your saddle, looking behind you as you slowed to a trot. “I think we’re bein’ followed.”

Arthur reined up beside you, following the direction you were gazing. His blue eyes squinted against the sun. The glinting object moved as you watched, pulling Eugene off the road and into the underbrush. “I don’t like this,” Arthur muttered, kicking his horse into a run. “Let’s get out of here.”

You nodded, kicking into a gallop after Arthur. “You think they’re his friends?”

“Definitely,” Arthur groaned, looking over his shoulder as he maneuvered his horse over a craggy outcropping of rock and sage brush. “Careful here,” he added in a softer tone, hand falling from his reins to point out the rough spot.

The sound of hoofbeats echoed around you as both you and Arthur pushed your horses into a lathering gallop through the Heartlands. Slowing to give Eugene a rest, you turned, scanning the horizon behind you for your pursuers.

Catching your breath, you sighed. “I think we lost ‘em.”

Arthur sat uneasy on his horse, gaze trailing along the hills and rises behind you. Slowly, he removed his binoculars from his satchel. “Yeah, I think you’re right,” he sighed, relaxing a bit. You watched as his shoulders slumped and a small chuckle bubbled up. “Workin’ with you ain’t ever gettin’ old,” he smirked.

“I like to keep you on your toes, old man,” you smiled back, leaning forward on your saddle. “I was gonna say let’s head to Valentine and drink to our victory, but now I just want to go home.”

Arthur nodded, groaning in agreement. “That is the best plan you’ve had all day,” he smirked.

You kicked Eugene into a trot beside him, reaching over to shove playfully at his shoulder. “Hey! I thought I played the part of “damsel in distress” pretty well back there!”

“Oh, you did,” Arthur smirked. “Had ‘em all –”

He was cut off by a gunshot echoing around you. Both horses spooked as the small plume of dust erupted in front of you. You didn’t have to say anything more before you were both spurring your horses on.

“They’re relentless!” you groaned, reaching for your rifle. Holding on with just the strength of your thighs, you turned in the saddle, sighting down one of the riders following you. You squeezed the trigger at the same time Eugene jumped over a small rock. Your shot went wide, and you cursed, grabbing onto the reins as Eugene continued to follow the rockiest path available.

“Watch out!” Arthur’s voice reached you at the same time Eugene’s footing was lost, the slope too steep for him to run down.

“Come on, boy, you can do it,” you soothed, leaning back in the saddle as you picked up speed.

Arthur rounded the rise, running for you as he watched your horse lose more of its balance, until ultimately, you turned, going down with Eugene against the rocks and sliding the rest of the way down the hill.

Landing roughly in a cloud of dust, you cursed. Arthur jumped from his horse, pistol cocked and ready for your pursuers. When he didn’t see them above on the rise, or hear their hoofbeats, he holstered his piece.

“Damn it!” you cursed, rolling onto your side, right arm cradling your left against your chest.

Arthur kneeled beside you, pulling you by the shoulder to lay on your back, earning a gritted out curse of pain from him.

“Damn it, Arthur!”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “Ya dislocated your shoulder.” His hands were warm against your shoulder as he looked you over.

“How’s Eugene?” you asked, wincing against the pain shooting down your left side.

Arthur turned to look at the horse. The animal was neighing softly, breathing heavy. Just from the look, Arthur knew his leg to be broken. “Sorry, darlin’,” he started, moving to your left side and kneeling back down. “Gotta get this fixed,” he started, placing a hand on your left arm.

“No!” you started, slapping his arm as he sat you up in front of him. “Don’t you dare Arth – AH!” Your scream as he pushed your shoulder back into position had you curling in on yourself, head between your knees as you hugged your arm to yourself. “Some damn warnin’ next time!”

Arthur smirked as he knelt at your side, untying the neckerchief from around his neck and loosely tying it around yours. “Eugene won’t make it,” he mumbled, softly taking your left hand and easing it through the bandana to act as a sling.

You looked over your shoulder at your horse, a tear threatening to spill down your cheek. “No … No, he’ll be fine. He’s made it this far.”

Arthur placed a hand on your cheek, making you look up at him. “His leg’s broke, darlin’,” he said with a shake of his head. “He won’t make it back to camp.”

“But … my stuff,” you sniffled, rolling to your knees before standing on shaky legs and moving to your horse’s side. “My saddle …” you mumbled, running a hand over Eugene’s mane. “Hey old boy,” you cooed.

Arthur stood, bending at his waist to pick up your hat. Slapping it against his thigh and hand to rid it of the dust from your tumble. You watched as Arthur knelt beside you, untying your saddlebags and setting them aside.

“Arthur?” Your voice was weak as you sat beside your horse. He had been with you for years. He had made it through the fiasco of Blackwater, up North in the Grizzlies, that harsh winter you spent in Colter … you couldn’t just leave him.

Arthur knelt beside you, a hand pressed reassuringly against your shoulder. “I know,” he nodded. “It’s always hard,” he nodded as he stood, pulling you with him and leading you to his own horse, Calliope.

The mare was a beautiful chestnut color with a white star on her forehead. She was sweet, you had to admit, and much easier to handle than your stallion. He helped you up onto the saddle before draping your saddlebags over his own and tying them on. You groaned at the soreness in your shoulder as you settled in the saddle, biting back a sob. Arthur rested a hand against your thigh, looking up to you as he handed you your hat.

A single gunshot rang out before Arthur climbed onto the saddle in front of you, somehow making the move seem graceful with his broad body. You jumped as the gunshot sounded, and the minute Arthur was settled, reins in hand, your right hand fisted into the fabric of his shirt as you wrapped your arm around his middle, pressing your head against his shoulder.

****

The ride back to camp was quiet. Eventually your grip on his shirt lessened, and you relaxed as you held him around the waist. As he neared the turnoff for camp, he slowed, pressing a hand against yours on his stomach. “Darlin’,” he started, turning his head slightly. “You alright?”

“I could use some whiskey,” you mumbled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the fabric of the blue shirt he wore. “He’s the first horse I’ve had to leave,” you mumbled.

“He was a fine horse,” Arthur agreed with a nod of his head.

“Who’s that!” John’s voice called out from his spot near a tree.

“Arthur! Put your gun down!” Arthur called back.

Carefully, hand in hand, Arthur helped you down from the saddle before jumping down himself, tying the reins to the post. “Come on, let’s get those cuts looked at,” he started, guiding you to his tent.

“I’m fine,” you started, “I’ll have Miss Grimshaw look at ‘em.” You brushed your hair back from your forehead, wincing as your finger made contact with the cut you didn’t know was there.

“Sit.” Arthur pushed you on to the cot before kneeling in front of you, reaching up to remove your hat. “Let’s have a look,” he started, fingers inching along your forehead. “It ain’t deep. That’s good. Head hurt at all?”

You shook your head. “No,” you answered, wiping at your nose.

Arthur stood and dug around in his belongings for some salve and a rag. Kneeling before you once more, he also grabbed the bottle of whiskey standing under his cot. “This might hurt,” he started as he poured the whiskey over the cloth and started to clean the scrape.

You hissed at the contact, shying away from him only to have his left hand press against your waist. “Ow!” you pouted.

You watched Arthur work to clean your scrape before sighing. “I’m sorry,” you started.

“What for?”

You motioned to the tent flap with a raise of your chin. “Whatever the fuck that was. If I had known his friends wouldn’t fall for it, I wouldn’t have played up the innocent girl act.”

“Ya didn’t know,” Arthur intoned, dropping the rag to the mattress and holding the bottle of whiskey out to you. “It ain’t your fault.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” you added after a moment, taking a gulp of the whiskey before passing the bottle back to him. “For everything.”

Sighing, Arthur stood and sat beside you on his cot, leaning back against the wagon. “Ya don’t have to thank me.”

“I think I do.”

“Well, ya don’t,” Arthur replied. “There’s nothin’ I wouldn’t do to keep you safe. Always been like that.”

You nodded, biting your lip as you looked around, reaching for a piece of cloth that would serve as a better sling. Tossing it into Arthur’s lap, you smirked. “Want to make that a sling for me then?”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile that formed on his lips as he sat up straight was genuine. You watched as his hands worked to tie the knot in the fabric. As he sat up, adjusting so he scooted closer to you, you let him drape the cloth over your neck, gently guiding your hand into it,

“Thank you,” you mumbled, earning a quiet chuckle from him as he started to turn away.

You grabbed him by the front of the shirt, pulling him back to face you. “I mean it, Arthur. With every part of me: Thank you.”

He exhaled slowly, gaze trained on yours as he brought a hand to your cheek. You smiled at the touch, leaning into it. He leaned in, just lightly brushing his lips against yours. You leaned forward, deepening the kiss with a soft moan.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbled against your lips with a soft smile.


	3. Colter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader and Hosea reminisce while Arthur's out looking for John with Javier.

The sun was just starting to set when Hosea found you at the edge of camp, pile of old photographs in hand. “Whatcha got there?” he asked as he sat beside you.

“Do you ever look at these old things and … just miss them?” you asked. You shuffled the photos, which you were supposed to be unpacking, but found yourself reminiscing about instead. “Bessie, Annabell, Copper … my family.”

“Let me see that,” he sighed, leaning against the rotted out fence beside you, motioning to the picture of you, Bessie, and Susan. “That’s one I haven’t seen in years.”

You laughed. “I found it in the bottom of my trunk.”

“She did love you, that’s for sure,” Hosea remarked, looking fondly at the old photo of his wife. 

“I think about her a lot,” you murmured, looking out to the sunset over the snow capped mountains. “And now Davey … Jenny … Mac. We’ve lost a lot of people, Hosea.”

“I know,” he sighed, handing the picture back to you before pushing off the fence. “Dutch says he’s got a plan.”

You scoffed, looking off to the snowy scenery around you. “What happened in Blackwater, Hosea? Arthur won’t tell, Dutch won’t look at me, Miss Grimshaw asks the same thing … I don’t believe a word Micah says …”

“I wouldn’t either,” Hosea smirked. “Dutch said it went South, is all I know,” he answered. “Arthur and I weren’t on that boat. I don’t know for sure.”

“And now we’re camped in a snowed in cabin for the winter?” you asked. “Just sit here and hope we don’t all freeze to death?”

“You’re the strongest young woman I know,” he smiled, patting your shoulder. “If anyone can help us get through this winter, it’s you.”

“And Dutch … and Susan … and you,” you smiled.

Hosea laughed. “Better head inside, it only gets colder after dark.”

You nodded, accepting Hosea’s one armed hug. “You think John’s okay?” you asked as you followed Hosea into the larger of the cabins in Colter.

“Arthur and Javier will find him. He’s a strong son of a bitch,” Hosea smirked. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

***

You huddled on the cot, sleep evading you as you thought on Arthur, and John, and everyone else in the gang. Across the road, in the smaller cabin, the girls huddled around the fire with Miss Grimshaw and Jack. In the next room, Hosea snored softly from his small cot by the fire. 

You stared at the wall in front of you, bundled in one of Arthur’s jackets not fit for snowy weather, as well as layers of your own clothing and a threadbare woolen blanket. Blackwater had been a blur. One moment, you had been anxiously awaiting the men to return from the ferry job, the next, you were packing up camp and running into the mountains. With no money. 

You had been wary of the job from the get go, but admittedly for it when the time came. You had sat in on many briefings for jobs, and helped with planning for almost everything. You may not have been the enforcer like Arthur, but Dutch and Hosea had trusted you since your teen years to help figure things out. 

You awoke a few hours after morning to find Arthur curled into the blanket beside you, head tilted against the wall and feet splayed in front of him as he sat, asleep, on the cot. You had curled into his side, head on his shoulder as the both of you lounged on the cot like a bench instead of laying down. 

“Arthur?” you mumbled, rubbing sleep from your eyes but not raising your head from your makeshift pillow. 

He groaned something that may have passed for “what?” but didn’t move. 

“Is John okay?” you asked, noticing through the haze of sleep that it must have been past noon, and that he was, indeed, back in camp. 

“He’s fine,” he mumbled, shifting in his seat, tucking his hands farther under his arms. “Wolves almost got ‘im. Might be a bit uglier than befo’ but he’s alive.”

“Get some sleep,” you muttered, draping your half of the blanket over his frame as you stood with a stretch. “I’ll go see if Pearson’s got food ready yet.”

Arthur only groaned, eyes still closed and hat tilted over his forehead. As you reached the door, you heard shuffling, and turning back slightly, found Arthur slipping down to rest against the pillow. 

Hosea was sitting in front of the fire when you stepped into the front room of the cabin, elbows resting on his knees as he read one of his mystery novels. “Mornin’,” he greeted as you walked in. 

“When did Arthur and Javier get back?” you asked, standing in front of the fire to warm your hands. 

“Early this morning,” he answered. “John’s bein’ tended to in the other cabin.”

“Any news on what we’re doing next?”

“Freezing some more, I reckon,” Hosea joked. “Dutch mentioned something about a train. We’ll see how that goes.”

A train. 

Dutch’s motto must have changed to “go big or go home” in the last few years. Just fresh out of Blackwater, off a botched ferry heist, and he wanted to rob a train. You could hear his inspirational speech about it without even witnessing it. You had lived with him long enough to know how he thought by now. 

The cabin across the way was smaller than the one you were staying in, but warm you noted as you stepped in. Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen were huddled on a bench to the left of the door, just beside the fire, all bent over sewing. Miss Grimshaw sat directly in front of the fire on an old wooden chair. And on the far wall, John lay, bandages wrapped around his head, with Abigail at his side.

You had always been like a sibling to John. You had gotten into enough scrapes with him as children to leave scarred knees and bruises. Seeing him bedridden, half his face obscured by thick, blood stained bandages, you felt a twinge of fear in your heart. Having thought he had died had been terrible. You could only imagine what Abigail felt. 

“He’ll be fine,” Abigail said, not looking up to you as you sat beside her. “He hasn’t woken up yet, but Miss Grimshaw says the wounds are clean, and they will heal.”

“He’ll just have some new scars,” you smirked. “I’m glad he’s okay.”

***

Bessie had once told you that Dutch and Hosea were good men. Strong willed, yes, but good men. Through the years since you had first met Bessie Matthews, you found those words to ring ever true. They were con-men, first and foremost. Outlaws on the run. A sort of Robin Hood style folktale. 

Steal from the rich, give to the poor. 

Or, in Dutch’s words: Steal from the powerful, give back to the community. 

Which made sense, of course, when Dutch found those charts at Colm O’Driscoll’s snowbound hideout. Leviticus Cornwall was one of those overly rich members of society, and Dutch wanted to steal from him. To show that the underdogs could triumph. It made sense. A train heist was exactly what this gang needed in terms of a morale boost. 

You leaned over the map, Dutch, Arthur, Bill, and all the others gathered around your shoulders. Through the years you had become sort of a cartographer and wayfinder for the gang. You understood maps, and directions, as well as topographical changes in terrain. 

“Alright, so … here is your best option,” you started, pointing to the ridge outline on the map before running your finger over to the drawn railway lines. “If I’m reading this right, this should be just above the tracks, and on the other side of this tunnel,” you added, running your finger over another line. 

“Bill will set the charges,” Dutch explained. “The rest of us will wait there until the train is stopped.” 

You hummed in agreement. “This seems like its pretty empty country through here, but be careful. This could be an old map. The only landmark I’m seeing is that water tower.”

“First thing in the morning, boys,” Dutch smiled, rolling the map up. “We’re robbing a train!”


	4. stirrings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harlow as placeholder last name for reader

“Barnaby.” 

The dappled grey Norfolk Roadster whickered, bobbing his head up and down as you said the name, a large smile on your face. 

“Barnaby.” Arthur’s voice held a hint of amusement, almost a laugh, as he repeated the name. The stablehand smiled brightly, leading the horse towards the center of the stable.

“I like it,” you hummed, taking the reins from the stable hand and leading your brand new horse out to the sunny Valentine street. “Doesn’t he look like a Barnaby?”

“If y’say so,” Arthur hummed, cigarette between his lips. 

“Take care now!” the stablehand bidded as you left the building.

The Norfolk had put you back almost $200. Plus a brand new saddle, blanket, tack, and saddlebags. You had lost the saddle, and all the gear as well when you left Eugene, nursing a dislocated shoulder on the back of Arthur’s horse, and since then, had been borrowing horses from the camp or riding with Arthur into town when needed. You missed the freedom of having your own horse, however. Since you had turned sixteen, you had always had your own horse to care for. 

“Thank you, Arthur,” you started, petting your hand along Barnaby’s neck. 

“Quit thankin’ me. I ain’t done nothin’.”

You smiled, running your hand over Barnaby’s neck some more, fingers toying with his long mane. “You helped me, patched me up when I hurt my shoulder, took care of Eugene … brought me into town, so I could buy a horse. You’ve helped plenty.”

“Agh, that ain’t worth thankin’ me for,” he groaned, running a hand up into his hair as he removed his hat. 

You sighed, pulling yourself into your saddle, adjusting the skirt you wore as you settled, reins in hand. “When are you gonna realize you’re a good man, Arthur. I mean, even as kids you always kicked yourself.”

“Maybe one day.”

He looked away, down to his hands holding the reins as Calliope shifted beneath him, hoofing at the dirt. You could see the self deprecation oozing off his shoulders as he sat in the saddle.

“One day, I’ll make you realize it,” you groaned, kicking Barnaby into a trot. “I’ll meet ya back at camp.”

***

“Miss Harlow!”

You jumped, shifting to lean against your arm as you looked over your shoulder. You had been quietly reading a book against a tree, Jack sitting beside you making flower chains. Miss Grimshaw was striding forward, the stern look of your mother figure ever recognizable. She rarely used your name; you had grown used to her calling you dear or dearie, and the mere sound of it always had you at attention. 

“Yes, Miss Grimshaw?”

The stern gaze lessened, her features softening as she neared, looking down to you with a small smile. “Dutch wants to speak with you, dear,” she smiled, running a hand over Jack’s hair as he held a flower chain up to her.

“Thank you, Mister Marston,” she smiled, bending at the waist to accept the gift. 

“Miss Harlow’s got one too!” Jack smiled. “And I made one for momma!”

“Go on, then,” you smiled, urging the child in the direction of camp. “Your momma’s gonna love it.”

You rose to your feet, watching Jack run off to Abigail as Miss Grimshaw tutted. “Off with you, now,” she urged. 

You smiled, and headed for Dutch’s tent. Arthur, Bill, and Charles were sitting around outside, listening as Dutch spoke, cigar in hand. 

“Mornin’ boys,” you smiled, folding the book into your hands as you stepped up. 

“Ah, our little doe, Miss Harlow,” Dutch smiled. “The mastermind for this robbery!”

“You found this out?” Bill asked a bit incredulously. You had grown used to the men viewing you as nothing more than a wash maid over the years. Dutch knew better. You may have worn a skirt, but you were just as valuable as an enforcer and scout as Arthur and Charles. 

“Yes I did,” you hummed, jutting your chin up. “Ready to head out?”

“You would be correct, dear,” Dutch smiled. “Good luck. I trust you can handle these men.”

Charles and Arthur smirked as they stood, starting for their horses. You met Bill’s eyes, smiling as you stepped past, setting your book on the camp table. “Of course I can, Dutch!” you smiled back to the gang leader. “Keep up, Williamson!” 

Arthur helped you onto his horse, settling you behind him on the saddle. “So, how do you want to play this?” 

You glanced over to Charles and Bill. “The man who gave me the information said it’d be guarded pretty well,” you started. “I’ll play the damsel, get them to stop, and you three take out the guards.”

“How much is supposed to be on this coach?” Bill asked over his shoulder.

“It’s payroll for some shipping company in Saint Denis,” you answered. “Driving through the Heartlands to Lemoyne. From the sounds of it: a lot. Should be able to catch it just over the state line.”

“When the shootin’ starts --” Arthur started.

“Run for cover. I know,” you interjected with a scoff. “This ain’t my first robbery, Arthur.”

You felt him chuckle, your hands placed on his sides to steady you in the saddle. “No, it ain’t.” 

The hill you stopped on overlooked a main road, the Lemoyne state sign off to your left. You dropped from Arthur’s horse, stepping up to the ridge as you looked up the road. “Alright, boys, they’re comin’ through,” you hummed, turning and smiling to the men. “Wish me luck!” 

***

_ “I got a girl in Berryville! Can’t be screwed cuz she’s too damn ill! I don’t go down there no more. There’s a blue horse laying outside her door!”  _

You smiled brightly, leaning into Karen’s side as the two of you sat on the log in front of the fire, both of you leaning heavily against the other, a bottle of whiskey being passed between the two of you. Your voices were loud enough to be heard throughout camp, but somehow, even in the drunken haze the two of you had fallen into, the others hadn’t told you to shut the hell up. Yet.

You and the boys had returned that afternoon after robbing the payroll stage, pockets full and a smile gracing Bill Williamson’s face as he admitted you did a good job. 

It was Karen’s bright idea to drink and have fun. It had been a while, and you agreed it had to help lift the camp’s spirits somewhat, especially when Trelawney’s information about Sean being moved by bounty hunters had entered the camp gossip stream earlier that day. 

“No, no!” you laughed, waving a hand in front of your face as you screwed up the line, laughing raucously with Karen. “ _ I got a girl in Berryville!” _

_ “Can’t get it in cuz she won’t stay still!”  _ Karen finished before taking another deep swig of whiskey.

Arthur sighed, leaning on his elbows at the wooden table. The poker game had dissolved almost an hour ago, cards and chips stowed away. Dutch’s tent had been closed, but the lamp was still lit, and those still awake lazed around the fires, watching the stars. “Shut them up, please,” John sighed as he landed in the seat beside Arthur. 

“Give it a try,” Arthur smirked, turning from watching your duet with Karen. “You and I both know that bottle will be thrown at our heads.”

“It’s one in the mornin’,” John groaned, leaning against the table. 

Arthur groaned, pushing from the table with an agreeing nod. “Alright, alright,” he waved Marston off as he stood. 

You were practically laying against Karen’s shoulder, watching the dying fire as you sang mismatched verses of  _ O, Mollie _ . 

_ “They say I drink whiskey, my money’s my own! And them that don’t like me can leave me alone … ” _ You laughed, hiccupping into your hand as Karen hummed along.

“Alright, ladies,” Arthur’s voice startled you as he stepped up, reaching for the bottle of whiskey in your hand. “It’s gettin’ real late.”

_ “I’ll eat when I’m hungry,”  _ you carried on, a large smile on your face, hand tightening on the bottle of whiskey as he tried to take it away.  _ “I’ll drink when I’m dry! And when I get thirsty ... “  _ you trailed off, watching as Arthur successfully pried the bottle from your hand and dropped it to the ground. “I’ll … I … forgot the words ...”

Arthur laughed, ducking his head with a small shake of disbelief as he watched you look around your seat for something your drunken brain made up. Karen hiccupped beside you, pushing to her feet. “Goodnight, Mister Morgan!” she smiled, voice much louder than normal, as she leaned into his side and bopped her finger to his nose. “Goodnight!” 

Arthur caught her around the waist as she stepped by, guiding her until she started to walk towards her tent. “Alright, come on,” he started, reaching down for your arm. 

You stumbled as you got to your feet, leaning against his chest with a hand laid over his suspender strap. “I think … I’m drunk,” you laughed, pushing off of Arthur as you tried to step away. 

Arthur’s arm wrapped around you. “Again,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Ain’t ever gon’ be surprised when the two of ya are together. Drinkin’ the camp dry.”

You laughed, turning to face him as he neared, wrapping his arm around your middle. “You should join us sometime, Arthur!” you started, jabbing your index finger into his chest to punctuate your words. “Have some fun! Stop fretting over robberies … and Dutch’s words … and us girls.”

“I don’t fret,” Arthur argued. “But you are sloshed, sweetheart. Time for bed.”

You pouted, stumbling as you stepped away from Arthur. “Rrriiiigggghhhttt,” you droned, waving a hand in the air as you walked. “Frettin’ over me … runnin’ after Mary … helpin’ raise Jack … always frettin’.”

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but closed it as he watched you. Stumbling forward, hand landing against the bark of the large oak tree, you bent over at the waist, vomiting up your stomach contents into the dirt. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he sighed, stepping up and pulling your hair out of the way. “Ya need t’ sleep. And eat. Come on.”

“See,” you started, wiping your chin on your sleeve. “You’re frettin’ again.”

“Sure.”

He guided you to your tent, making you sit down on the edge of your cot before standing and producing a chunk of bread from his satchel, wrapped in an embroidered handkerchief. “Eat.” He didn’t order, but even in your drunken haze, you could hear the sternness in his tone; the caring nature that was Arthur Morgan. “You’re gonna have a hell of a headache in the mornin’.”

You picked at the bread, chewing on it slowly as you sat on your cot, head already pounding. “I … heard ya saw her … Mary … in town.”

Arthur nodded, standing at the opening of your tent. “Yeah, I did,” he answered. “And her brother, Jamie.”

“She was always nice,” you hummed, tossing the half eaten chunk of bread onto the small wooden crate acting as a table and reaching for your small pillow. 

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Get some sleep,” he added after a moment, pulling the blanket over your shoulder as you slumped onto your pillow, snores almost immediately filling the silence of the tent. 

***

“Son of a bitch,” you groaned, leaning bodily against the support pole of your tent. 

Arthur glanced up from his spot by the cookfire, bending at his waist to pour himself a cup of coffee. You stood against your tent, hand placed over your eyes as the morning sunlight hit you. Your hair and clothing was disheveled from a drunken sleep, and the pounding in your head was worse than Uncle’s snoring. 

“Mornin’, sleepin’ beauty,” Arthur smiled, stepping up and holding out his coffee to you. 

“Shut up, Arthur,” you groaned, taking the cup. 

“Strauss should have some tonic for that headache o’ yours. Or I could go see if Pearson’s got any fresh offal for ya …”

At your visible retch, Arthur chuckled and trailed off. You covered your mouth, wiping the coffee from your lip with the back of your hand before looking up to glare at the man in front of you. 

“You’re mean.”

He shrugged, taking the now empty cup from you. “Could say I’m frettin’ over ya ‘cause you drank Uncle under the table last night.”

You groaned, shoving the heels of your hands into your eyes. “Shut up, Arthur.”

He chuckled heartily, relaxing back as he hooked his thumbs into his belt. “I’m sure it’ll happen again,” he smirked, nodding to the main campfire where Karen sat with Javier and John. “We’re headin’ out to find Sean.”

You managed to chuckle, squinting up at him in the morning sun. “He’ll have the entire camp drunk if you bring him back.”

“Almost a guarantee,” Arthur smirked. 

You stepped past him, patting a hand against his shoulder. “You’re frettin’ over us all again,” you mumbled as you stepped past him. 

“Only you,” he countered. “Better eat something for that hangover.”

“I know,” you groaned. “I’ve been drunk before.”

“It ain’t a camp secret, sweetheart.”

You looked up to him, a small smile lighting your face. “You’re mean,” you repeated, with a small chuckle. “But you’re … right. I guess. Go get Sean back, Mister Morgan. Fret over someone else for a bit.”

“Will do,” he smiled. 


	5. coincidences

Love was a fickle thing. Arthur had come to see it as so after Mary, loving someone but not being able to have them close. He had come to think that love was not for him, that he wasn’t meant to be loved and that he’d be alone. He wanted nothing more than a family,  _ his family _ , whether it was the gang or Eliza and Isaax - he wanted that stable future.

You had known him for nearly twenty years. Had seen him at his highest, watching as he told the camp about his proposal to Mary, or the upcoming birth of Isaac. There had been a spark in his eyes then. And you had watched it dim the last handful of years. Watched as he became jaded and cynical, and dare you say grumpy.

But, as you sat under one of the oak trees at the edge of camp, watching with your embroidery almost forgotten in your lap, you smiled as Arthur hauled Little Jack Marston up onto his hip. The child giggled, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s neck as they walked off. 

Arthur, you came to realize, in that breezy morning at Horseshoe Overlook, was a damned fool. He had built this wall around his heart all those years ago, having Mary leave him, and losing Eliza and Isaac, that he believed nothing could pierce it. You smiled, laughing quietly as you turned back to your work as Jack rambled on and on about how Hosea took him and Abigail into town the other day, Arthur adding in general prompts for the child to continue talking. 

You were laughing, he noted, nose stuck into the embroidery in your hands as you sat beneath the tree, knees pulled up in front of you. The action told him you had let out a small chuckling snort into your work, and the kicking and laughing toddler in his arms had to be the reason for it. 

There wasn’t much that Arthur wished for. A quick death was always one, especially with his life as an outlaw. A bullet, or a noose was always the best scenario. Love, and to be loved, was a wish that he had come to conclude would never happen, would always stay a dream. 

However, when Arthur watched you practically fall down that cliffside with your horse and found you hurt, albeit barely ... When he woke up in Colter, you curled into his side to keep warm, only to wake and fuss over if he and Javier and John were all okay ... When he watched you play with Jack, carrying him as he so often did and relishing in the sweet “ _ Auntie” _ nickname … Arthur felt something strange bubble up in the pit of his stomach. 

It had been so long since he had felt that feeling of giddiness and nerves that it took him perhaps much too long to realize maybe there was  _ something _ between the two of you. 

You danced with Jack on your hip the night Sean was brought back from camp, smiling and laughing with the toddler as Abigail and John danced to Dutch’s gramophone. 

It … looked natural, he came to realize as he spun Mary-Beth around, breaking into laughter as the two of them lost their balance slightly. The sight of you, child on your hip had sent those butterflies in his stomach all aflutter. 

***

“Mornin’, Arthur,” you smiled, elbow deep in the basin of laundry in front of you, as Arthur walked by. “Where’re you off to in a rush?” you asked, adjusting on your knees slightly. He looked tired, as if he had stayed up all night with a little too much to drink from the celebration last night. 

“Nowhere,” he answered after a moment, turning slowly to face you. 

You nodded, sitting back on your heels as you pulled your hands from the wash, drying them off on your apron. “Nowhere, huh? Loaded up with a scoped rifle and a full quiver ... you’re either goin’ huntin’ or runnin’ away,” you smirked, motioning to Calliope at the hitching post. 

Arthur scoffed a laugh, glancing over his shoulder to look to his horse. “Huntin’.”

“Well, obviously,” you smiled, standing to your feet to hang some of the wet garments onto the line overhead. “Be careful?”

“Look who’s frettin’ over who,'' he smirked, tipping his hat as he turned on his heel. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he added. “Charles wants to hunt a buffalo.”

“And you tell me not to worry?” you almost laughed, continuing to hang the camp’s wet laundry on the line. “A buffalo, Arthur! Really?”

He smiled, turning back to wink at you as he continued to his horse. “Stop frettin’,” he smirked with a wave. 

“Never!” 

***

Arthur and Charles had been gone much longer than you had anticipated. When Charles returned to camp alone, you figured Arthur had disappeared to do whatever it was he did during his treks away from camp. When Arthur finally returned back to camp, he looked intent, brow furrowed beneath his hat as he walked with purpose towards Dutch’s tent. 

“Dutch, we need t’ talk,” Arthur started, stepping into the opening of Dutch’s tent.

Dutch lazily closed his book, leaning his elbow against his knee as he looked up to Arthur. “What is it, my boy?” 

Glancing over his shoulder, Arthur stepped into the tent, producing the newspaper he had bought earlier that day in town. “Read this in the paper this mornin’,” he started, opening to the article in question and handing it over to Dutch. “Sounded … familiar.”

Dutch looked down to the newspaper, brow furrowed as he started to read. 

_ HARLOW SHIPPING COMPANY ON THE RISE _

_ Recent Payroll Robbery Can’t Hold Company Back _

_ A recent stage robbery just over the state line in Lemoyne left Harlow Shipping without this month’s payroll. Witnesses of the robbery claim it was stopped when a young woman appeared in the road, looking lost and frightened, only to have her companions waiting in the bush to strike. No one was harmed, but the lockbox and valuables were looted before the group rode off …  _

“First Cornwall,” Dutch spat the name, folding the paper in his lap with clear distaste. “And now this.”

“Dutch, the name --” Arthur started, motioning to the paper, stepping closer to his mentor. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

“It ain’t nothin’, my boy,” Dutch said, standing to his full height, setting the paper aside. “For all we know, it could be a popular name. It don’t mean that our little dove’s long lost family is down here.”

“But --” Arthur started, clamping his mouth shut. “What are the odds that we,  _ she _ , robs a god damned stagecoach belonging to this  _ Harlow _ ?”

Dutch sighed, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he stepped to his side. “If you’re so worried about it, son, look into it.”

“What happens if I find anythin’?”

Dutch shrugged, reaching into his pocket to produce his cigar and a match. “If this Harlow is indeed related -  _ somehow  _ \- to our little dove, we will deal with it. For now, stay out of trouble.”

Arthur sighed, glancing around camp before stepping out of the tent, Dutch clapping a hand on his shoulder as he did. 


	6. secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon on Tumblr asked : "can I get an Arthur Morgan x reader with the prompt thing if it's still an available request? The secretly dating one."

You bit your lips, tapping your foot as you stood beside the building. Glancing over your shoulder, you watched as Karen, Uncle, Hosea, and Mary-Beth drove off down the road and out of town, their pockets recently padded and supplies packed into the buckboard. You prayed they wouldn’t ask after you upon returning to camp.

It wasn’t that you weren’t allowed outside of camp by yourself, you ran plenty of jobs for the gang, racking in money, collecting debts. But this was different. You didn’t want anyone asking why you were suddenly leaving camp for days at a time to spend time in a small mountain town away from the prying eyes and gossip of the Van Der Linde Gang. 

You weren’t the only one having difficulties keeping their private life out of the topic of talks around the campfire. Arthur had his fair share of questions thrown his way as well. Where was he going? Why’s he gone for so long? Why do you keep writing in that journal of yours? What’s with the stupid grin?

“Hey.” Speak of the devil. Turning around, you smiled as Arthur stepped off the porch of the saloon, adjusting his hat as he stepped forward. “Thought they’d never leave.”

You chuckled, hugging your arms closer to yourself. “One of these days they’re gonna find out,” you started, a sort of sigh escaping your lips. 

Sitting in camp, twenty people didn’t seem that large of a number. Most of the time you and the girls stuck to house chores, the men guarded the perimeters, and Pearson stirred his pot of stew … there was rarely all twenty of you in camp at once. But keeping a secret from the lot of them? the hardest thing you had done in the years since you had joined. 

“I don’t know, Arthur,” you sighed, walking beside him as he led you down the street to the hotel. “They’re bound to find out someday.”

“I know,” he agreed. “But … it ain’t the right time. Not now. We … we can’t afford to let them know. Can’t lose what we have. Seems like the world don’t want us to be happy.”

You nodded, stepping onto the porch and turning back to Arthur, hands folded in front of you. “Do you think it ever will be a happy ending for us?” you asked. “I mean, Dutch is definitely off his rocker … I ain’t ever seen him like this -- Hosea can barely keep a handle on him. I … I think I’m scared.”

“Which is why,” Arthur smiled, opening the door and leaning forward a bit, “We’re keeping this a secret. I don’t need Dutch lecturin’ me about loyalties right now. But,” he trailed off, paying the clerk for a room before being handed a key and leading you to the stairs. “He does care for you … us … in his own crazy way.”

“Which is why we keep sneakin’ off to small town hotels when the camp thinks we’re off doing other things just to get a bit of privacy?”

Arthur chuckled, dropping his head a bit as you had reached the door to your room. “Well, it ain’t like my tent’s all that private.”

“True, true,” you hummed, dropping a hip as you watched him unlock the door. “And the walls of Shady Belle are rather … thin.” 

“You were lucky that mornin’,” he smirked, opening the door for you and guiding you in with a hand at your elbow. “Five minutes earlier and Grimshaw would have found us.”

You groaned at the memory of almost being caught in a compromising position with Arthur last week before smiling. “Promise me, whatever Dutch has planned for this gang, this doesn’t change.”

“I promise,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to your lips. 

***

“A little birdie told me you were having some fun without me in town the other day,” Micah’s venomous voice pulled you out of your thoughts as you sewed at the main camp table, the sock almost dropping from your grasp as he stepped up, taking the empty seat across from you. 

“What’s it to you?” you asked, focusing on darning the sock instead of his smug face. 

“Oh, don’t be like that, darlin’,” he started, leaning forward heavily on the table. “I thought you and I had somethin’ special. All those longing glances and flirtatious remarks.”

You huffed a laugh, glancing up to Micah from the corner of your eye. “When the hell have I ever flirted with you? I’ve flirted with taking a shot at you … with my pistol. But that’s about it,” you said, folding your sewing to stand. 

“Micah,” Arthur’s voice came up from behind you, pulling your full attention as his broad frame stepped off the porch of Shady Belle and up to the table where the two of you sat. “Leave her alone, you rat.”

“Hey, we were just talkin’ cowpoke, no need to get all defensive. We’re allowed to talk, ain’t we?”

Arthur only glared at Micah before turning to you. “Mornin’. Dutch wants to see you.”

“Right,” you nodded, standing and striding off towards the house. 

“Alright, alright,” Micah sighed, kicking his feet out in front of him as he leaned his back against the table. “Big Arthur Morgan’s got a soft spot for Dutch’s little dove. It all makes sense now,” he smirked.

Arthur only started walking off, with a muttered “Shut up, Micah.”

You leaned around the corner, watching as Arthur started back towards the house. As he passed through the door into the front room, you grabbed his shoulder, pulling him into the back hallway. “What was that?”

Cursing under his breath, he dropped his head. “Damn Micah … must have found out.”

“Well great,” you sighed, slapping your hands against your thighs with the movement. “If Micah knows everyone will by tonight.”

Arthur met your gaze. “This bothers you, don’t it? The camp knowing?”

“Yes. And no. I don’t really know,” you sighed. “For years I’ve lived with ya’ll … bunking with you and Marston as kids, and hanging close to Hosea’s side when I was even younger … I ain’t never really had privacy. And now, we’re in an actual house, with a roof and four walls, and I’m starting to learn what privacy actually is,” you explained. “I just … I wanted some semblance of a private life, away from the girls, and Dutch, and Hosea, and just have something that was … mine.”

“I get it,” Arthur nodded, taking a deep breath. “I … agree with you. And Micah’s a snake,” he added, pulling you into an embrace, hand running over your back. “I love you, that’s all that matters.”

You smiled against his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I love you too, Arthur.”


	7. something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> love's been blossoming, bubbling, and fluttering around the two of you for a while. now you are starting to realize it.

You weren’t exactly sure when things had started to change. Life on the run, in the gang, itself was ever changing. You were no longer a scared orphan, hugging Hosea’s pant leg, aiding in some con he was putting on without even realizing it. Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, and John had all grown into formidable con men and thieves, and you had too. 

Life changed. 

But _something_ had changed in you that you couldn’t quite place. A bubbling, frenzy of butterflies deep in your stomach that burst and fluttered anytime he was near. A gooey, thick feeling you wanted rid of, but at the same time wanted more of. 

You weren’t sure how to pinpoint an exact time and place this change came into effect. Was it when Arthur broke down, crying in your arms that night Mary had announced the engagement was off? The weeks after Eliza and Isaac’s deaths? The morning Arthur found you, shot, and so close to death he nearly broke down in the outskirts of Armadillo before hauling you back to camp?

_Something_ had changed. And that something was a word you hadn’t uttered since you were a teenager, drunk on a young man who turned out to be not good. A word Arthur had trouble muttering since the broken engagement. 

_Love._

All you knew was that it had crashed upon you like a steam train. Plowing into you one foggy morning in Horseshoe Overlook. The seed had been planted long ago - perhaps it was when the both of you realized the people you loved didn’t love you back the same - and that seed had been sowing, growing into a tangible feeling over the years that left you frozen in place that spring morning. 

You had awoken to shouting and the sound of hoofbeats as the camp was roused. Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you jumped to your feet, slipping on boots and an overcoat over the longjohns you slept in, before grabbing a pistol from your belt and running out to inspect the commotion.

The sight you saw before you, had your blood curdling. 

Arthur sat atop his horse, the white shirt he wore dark crimson from the wound bleeding on his abdomen. He barely could keep upright as Charles and Dutch reached up and guided him from the saddle, all three grunting as Arthur’s strength gave out once he was unseated. 

You watched, horrified, as Arthur stumbled to a walk between Charles and Bill. Dutch wiped his hands off on a handkerchief as he followed. “Miss Grimshaw, girls! If you will –” he trailed off as everyone sprung to action, the girls running off to the wagons to gather supplies as Miss Grimshaw followed after Dutch, already rolling her sleeves up. 

Springing into action, you shoved the pistol into the pocket of your coat and followed after Grimshaw. “What happened?” you asked, pushing forward to move some of Arthur’s belongings out of the way. 

Arthur groaned as he was laid down on the cot. “Damn O’Driscolls,” he mustered, head rolling back on the small pillow, his hat long forgotten in the dirt somewhere between the horse and the tent. 

“We’ll need water. Hot water,” Grimshaw started, nodding to Bill and Charles before glancing over to Dutch as you worked to remove Arthur’s gunbelt and bandolier. 

“I’ll leave him in your very capable hands,” Dutch nodded, striding back to his tent where Hosea stood, watching on with a look of concern. 

***

After days of bedrest and reprimands from Grimshaw and Dutch to “stay the hell in bed” , Arthur was raring to get up and stretch his legs. The small cot was barely big enough to accommodate his large frame, and even smaller to be confined to for a few days. 

Pushing to his feet, he stumbled to the opening of his tent, hand pressed against the bandages under his shirt. 

Another foggy morning in Horseshoe Overlook. The camp fire was still burning, giving off an eery glow to the fog surrounding it. Pearson was already up, prepping the day’s meal. 

Scratching at the growth of beard on his chin, Arthur sighed, stepping out into the morning air in search of … something. 

You looked up as you heard a twig snap behind you. Turning, you saw Arthur slowly walking forward towards your spot on the boulder overlooking the Dakota River. 

“Mornin’,” he rasped as he leaned against the boulder beside you. You watched as he relaxed against the boulder, head falling back on a deep exhale. 

Biting your lip you sighed. “What happened?”

“O’Driscolls,” he answered after a moment. “Ambushed me while coming through Twin Stack. “You alright? Haven’t seen you up this early in years.”

His attempt at a jest had a small smile gracing your lips, but you couldn’t hold it as that fluttery, warm feeling bubbled back into your chest. Folding your hands, you forced your gaze back to the river valley before you. 

“I was scared,” you said after a while, sighing as your voice cracked on a slight sob. “You’re … you go out and get shot at all the damn time, and this time? I don’t know … I … I was scared. Scared you wouldn’t …”

Silence followed your words. The only sound was the chirping of the morning birds and the wind through the hills. 

Finally, Arthur sighed, shifting his weight as his hand found the bandages on his abdomen once more. “I was too,” he started. “Scared. I mean. Scared I’d …”

He trailed off, but the words stuck in his throat. 

Something had changed between you that morning he rode into town, bleeding, and closer to death than he had ever been. 

You nodded as he trailed off, looking back to your hands as you curled into yourself tighter under the large coat you wore. You weren’t exactly sure it was just that morning, you found yourself thinking as the two of you sat there, watching the sun rise over the hills. Perhaps it had been a mixture and accumulation of many times over the years. 

But something was certain. That _something_ was definitely not just a feeling that would go away.


	8. plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arthur enlists john to help begin a search for this harlow fellow.

Arthur dropped from his horse, scanning the camp for a moment before striding towards the trees behind his tent. “John,” he started, as he neared, grabbing Marston’s attention.

“What’s up?” John asked, looking up from his spot on the log. 

“I need yer help with somethin’,” Arthur started. 

“Alright,” John sighed, standing from his seat and replacing his hat on his head. “What is it?”

“Remember that article I found? Harlow Shipping?”

“Of course,” John answered with a nod, following Arthur back towards the hitching post. “What about it? You gonna tell her?”

Arthur shook his head, swinging into his saddle. “No. I’m heading to Emerald Ranch, then Rhodes … I think I’ve found something.”

“Dutch know?” John asked, kicking into a trot alongside Arthur as they left Horseshoe Overlook. 

“Of course,” Arthur nodded. “But it’s … complicated. Have to be discreet. If she found out there was a Harlow Shipping Company in Saint Denis … a company with her last name … she’d run off, guns blazing, to find out the truth.”

John chuckled at the mental image of you storming an office, looking for twenty year old answers. “If she finds out you’re doin’ this behind her back, she’ll shoot you.”

“Better’n her runnin’ off and makin’ a scene,” Arthur sighed. 

***

“So, what are we doin’?” John asked as they pulled up to Emerald Ranch. 

Arthur hitched his horse, looking across the road to where Seamus was standing in the yard of the barn. “Buying information.”

“And you needed me?”

“In case I do somethin’ stupid, I need you here to back me up.”

“I woulda told her the moment you found that article!” 

“You would have been punched.”

“Probably,” John nodded, following after Arthur, “But it’s preferable to what she’ll do if she finds out you’re doin’ this!”

Seamus didn’t offer a greeting as the two of them walked up, just walked towards the barn, and opened the large doors, revealing a fancy wagon. “There she is, safe and sound! As you promised.”

Arthur nodded, pulling a stack of bills from his pocket. “Get on up there,” he motioned for John with a pointed finger to the wagon as he handed over a stack of bills to Seamus. “I’ll be back for more. Keep an eye out.”

John groaned as he climbed up onto the wagon, looking over the polished wood and leather accents before grabbing the reins. “What is this?” he asked as he pulled out of the barn. 

Arthur nodded, hands on his hips. “Harlow’s.”

John gaped at Arthur as he dropped to the ground, jaw slack and eyes wide. “Harlow’s. You stole Harlow’s carriage?”

“Borrowed, more like it,” Arthur smirked. For a moment he waited for John to interject before continuing. “We robbed his payroll, I found that article, and then … a friend of mine found he was traveling up from Saint Denis to Cornwall’s Oil Fields … Had Seamus sneak in and steal this ... “ 

“Why?”

Arthur groaned, climbing up to the bench and leaning over to pull a small box out from under it. Tossing it down to John, he stood on the step, looking down. “Clues.”

John turned the small box over in his hands. “Alright,” he nodded, opening it to find a pile of newspaper clippings and notes. “I’ll help ya find this Harlow fella. But I ain’t dressin’ fancy to impress some … businessman.”

“Of course not,” Arthur smirked, dropping to his feet, “You’d be made within moments. Dutch’ll help.”

***

You looked up from your book, the lantern on the table beside you casting just enough light around you to grant a comfortable reading area as the camp slept. The two horses coming in, after Charles’s greeting call, were a surprise. Arthur and John dismounted and went their separate ways. 

“You’re back late,” you greeted as John walked past your seat towards his tent. “What’ve you been up to?”

John stopped short, before turning to greet you. “Arthur’s plannin’ something. Wanted my help.”

“Sounds fun,” you nodded, turning back to your book for a moment. “A robbery?”

“Something like that,” John nodded before continuing to his tent. 

You nodded before standing, leaving the lantern on the table. Walking towards your own tent, you passed ARthur’s, stopping as you noticed he was standing over his table, reading a newspaper by lanternlight. 

“John says you’re planning a robbery?”

Arthur jumped slightly, looking over his shoulder before straightening and pushing the newspaper aside. “Something like that,” he answered. “Got a few tips in town the other day. Thought it would work out.”

“Oh,” you nodded. “Well, I hope it does. Keep me updated?” you asked.

“Of course.”

You smiled. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

“Goodnight.”

As you walked off, Arthur relaxed back against the table, looking back down to the newspaper he had folded out of sight. Sighing, he ran his fingers through his hair, staring at the black and white print of the paper in thought. How the hell was he going to keep this from you?

* * *

_ Harlow Shipping Company’s Missing Carriage _

_ Just a handful of weeks since a train was robbed carrying payroll for Harlow Shipping in Saint Denis, Mister Roland Harlow, owner of the company, has reported his personal carriage was stolen, along with personal effects. Paired with the recent payroll robbery, Harlow and his associates think the company may be the target of a new gang of outlaws roaming Scarlett Meadows. A reward has been offered for the return of the carriage. _

* * *


End file.
